


Runaway

by TransScribe



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: I've been sitting on this one for ages, Implied Relationships, M/M, Night Vale AU, Swearing, Wow who's surprised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 10:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11507574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TransScribe/pseuds/TransScribe
Summary: Rick has never found his place on Earth. He's always stood out, always looked for something different, never been able to fit into the mundane life of Earth society. He's looked to the stars, hoping to find somewhere he belongs. Maybe, however, it will find him.----Night Vale AU. A slightly weirder version of Gravity Falls. Our favourite gay old guys. What else could you look for?(Honestly, Gravity Falls fits so well as a Night Vale-esqe town, damn. And Stanchez does have a very Cecilos feel imo)Might still make sense if you haven't listened to Night Vale, but there are references you might miss from the pilot. Also, it's just really good in general.





	Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first real AU that I've come up with and written something for! I'm really proud of this one. There are more to come, but take this first instalment and enjoy!

A man was running. He felt he’d been running his whole life, but never quite this hard, and not always literally. 

 

A man was sprinting, but he probably didn’t need to. They were following him, yes, but not directly. No one was physically behind him. Not yet. 

 

A man was running, sprinting, panting, and he could have just left but this was him trying to process what was happening - they were finally catching up to him. Maybe he’d lose this time.

 

A man was slowing down. He didn’t need to keep running. He knew where to go. 

 

Kind of. 

 

A man had a name, a place he’d never heard of whispered to him by someone he now couldn’t remember. He wasn’t sure if they had ever been a person, nor was he sure they actually had a physical form. At this point, he thought that maybe it had always just been a voice. A voice with no purpose other than to tell him that this place was where he needed to be. 

 

Maybe the place needed _him._ It has never been made clear. 

 

A man punched in the co-ordinates (into what, I’m not sure) to a town he had never been to, but somehow knew the location of. 

 

A man opened a gateway to our humble little town.

 

A man came to Gravity Falls. 

 

This has been traffic. 

 

—— 

 

Rick Sanchez arrived in Gravity Falls in the late afternoon, judging by the sun’s positioning. At first glance, it appeared to be like any small town - timber houses, people milling around, friendly smiles, a strange aura of false security. He was not an optimistic man, something that stemmed from a life of being let down by everyone around him. He tended to think the worst of things. 

 

This town, however, just felt strange. It felt almost _alive_. He felt watched, yet there wasn’t anything particularly hostile about the environment, and it confused him. He couldn’t explain the sensation, and he didn’t like that at all. 

 

His stomach growled - how long had it been since he’d eaten? A small diner not too far from where he stood caught his eye. He made his way to the door, spotting a few figures sitting hunched over on stools and in booths. Hesitating for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint - the frustration continued, apparently - he pushed the door open, hearing a little bell tinkle, a few times too many in his opinion. 

 

The booth creaked when he sat down on it, but not in the normal way. It was more of a deep growl than a squeak of fabric. Rick had been in this town for all of 10 minutes and he already had enough questions to fill a book. 

 

A young lady (with one eye closed, probably the most normal part of this afternoon) handed him a menu, and he swore the items said something Lovecraftian before he blinked and was saw nothing but ordinary diner meals. He probably should’ve been running by now, but Rick _loved_  weird. He wanted to find the secrets of this town, he wanted to understand. Understanding was what Ricks did best. 

 

The young waitress - Susan, according to her tag - returned for his order. She smiled at him as she took his menu.

 

“You’re new.” 

 

Rick wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement, so he just nodded. 

 

“We don’t get many new people around here. The ones that come usually don’t last long.” 

 

He processed the words. “Scared off?”

 

“Sometimes. People find their way here somehow and leave just as suddenly. Sometimes they never get the chance.” 

 

Ominous. He liked this place more and more by the second. 

 

She stared at him with her one eye for slightly longer than was comfortable, before returning to the kitchen. Rick, now alone, tapped his fingers on the table. He wondered how long he could afford to stay here - how long until the Galactic Federation caught up with him. He wondered how much he could discover about this place before he had to leave. He wondered if the people were as odd as the town. 

 

Susan brought his food over as he stared out the window, pondering. Rick absent-mindedly ate, thinking through what he had to do before he could start looking into this town - and where to even start. He was vaguely aware of static crackling behind him as Susan turned on a small radio on the counter. One broadcast - something best described as trumpets screaming - seemed to be finishing up, if the diminuendo was anything to go by. He continued to pick at his food, distracted, as a voice began what he guessed was the program Susan had turned the radio on for. 

 

" _A mostly friendly little community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights and sounds emerge from the shack in the forest while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome, to Gravity Falls_. _”_

 

The voice was kind, but that might have been put-on for the listeners. Rick had never been a fan of radio shows. The idea of this disembodied voice telling stories was not something he thought of as relaxing. He could see why people would like this one, though. This voice was deep and rumbling - the kind of comforting of distant thunder when you’re inside and warm. He paid little attention to it, more occupied with finishing his food and wondering how far the Galactic Feds were from tracking him to here. 

 

Something, however, caught his attention. 

 

_“… Came into town today. Who is he? What does he want from us? Why his perfectly chaotic haircut? Why does that lab coat look so much better on him? He says he is a scientist. Well… we have_ **_all_ ** _been scientists at one point or another in our lives. But why now? Why here? And what’s with all those science-y gadgets he’s keeping in his hotel room – the one next to Greasy’s Diner?_

_No one does pie like Greasy's. No one.”_

Rick paused, mug of coffee hovering in front of his mouth. _How did this guy know?_

With a sideways glance and a quirked eyebrow, he met Susan’s eyes (eye?) and his unspoken question was met with a silent shrug, almost like she was saying  _“it wasn’t me, he just_ ** _knows_** _.”_

He nodded silently. Perhaps the people _were_ as interesting as the town. He downed his coffee, left the money on the table, and walked out of the diner as the man went on about the safe and unsafe colours of helicopters. 

——

It took little over a week of watching the town and its people for his curiosity to get the better of him. He managed to let himself feel a (presumably false) sense of comfort in that this was the longest he’d managed to hide out somewhere in a long time, and the Galactic Federation didn’t seem to be about to jump out from the shadows anytime soon, so he resolved to stay for a while and _really_ get some answers. 

He took up residence in an old fishing hut (which was larger than it needed to be, in all honesty, but it made for a good place to stay) after asking around and concluding that while no one was selling it, per se, no one really owned or used it anyway. It needed a bit of fixing up, for sure, but he was more used to working with his hands than you’d expect from a man that thin. 

As he worked on setting up his equipment - half of which he had to make, he’d be fucked if he weren’t so smart - he also tried talking to the locals. He figured he could get better information if he earned the trust of people he was working with, rather than acting like he was some cold, distant genius studying them like they were mice in his lab. To be fair, he _was_ studying the townsfolk as much as the town, but he wasn’t a monster. 

 

Rick wouldn’t call himself a sentimental man, but he found himself drawn back to the diner time after time, somehow a tie to the worlds outside this town he dare not visit yet. He verged on friendship with Susan. She was a loud character, but she knew things about the town and she’d always let it slide when she caught Rick slipping alcohol into his coffee. 

 

She told him that the guy who did the radio show - Stanley Pines, apparently - could probably give him the best information, and Rick didn’t doubt that for a second. He’d listened in to some of the guy’s shows and was intrigued - how did he know so much? Who was he? Who was this brother of his living in the woods? He wanted to meet the guy, ask him personally, but he’d never received a clear answer as to how to find him.

 

“You should introduce yourself to the town! Tell them what you’re looking for, how they can help, you’d have your own personal scouts around here in a flash.”

 

He took a sip of coffee. “And how do y-you suggest I do that?”

 

“Call a town meeting. It’s easy. Fiddleford will probably bring you food.” 

 

Rick had never met Fiddleford, had only heard about him from the radio, so this opportunity might open some doors. If this man was a scientist like himself, perhaps he had some answers, or perhaps he would be willing to work with him. At least he might be able to get some real equipment. He nodded, finished his coffee, and paid up. 

 

“Helpful as always, Sue.” Rick walked out, a faint mutter of “no one’s called me Sue before” behind him.

 

——

 

Rick tapped the microphone and cleared his throat to get the attention of everyone in the room. All eyes on him, he spoke.

 

“Hey everyone, I-I’m Rick Sanchez, I’m a scientist, and I’m 37. I, uh, don’t know why I-I told you my age, but I was told to introduce myself.” He paused. People seemed to be listening to him despite his rambling. He smiled. “Anyway, I-I-I was originally just passing through, but you’ve got to be the most scientifically interesting community in all of America, and I’d like to find out more.”

 

He told them how they could help him, he told them their town was special, he told them it was the least boring place on Earth. People asked him questions, asked where they could find him, told him their flowers changed colour every other day, but that might just be normal and they didn’t know much about flowers, but they hoped it would help. For such a strange town, the people seemed so friendly. He had never quite found a home in any plain old Earth town, he was always so different. Perhaps the odd people of this odd town sensed that. 

 

He met Fiddleford when he offered Rick corn muffins. Rick asked how he knew that Stan guy, and Fiddleford told him he worked with his brother, Stanford, and they were friends. He said they were working on studying the town as well, and that they could help each other. He told him how to find them, and wrote down their phone number, but said they might not answer because they’re often working in Ford’s basement. Fiddleford offered to cook him dinner as well, and oddly enough Rick found himself agreeing. He also found himself asking about Stanley. What did he know? How did he know? Fiddleford agreed to introduce them, if they didn’t find their way to each other in their own time. 

 

Apparently Stanley had a way of drawing others to him. The voice of Gravity Falls, like the town itself, had his own set of quirks. 

 

Needless to say, Rick’s interest was piqued. 

 

——

 

In his spare time, Rick had begun to repair people’s broken items - clocks, wind-up toys, old TVs - and either keep them for his own little house or fix them for a small price. He was turning a fair profit, seeing as he was repairing them with old parts from scrap heaps, and was barely spending any money on the parts required. It was enough to keep his fridge - something else he’d fixed up, but that had taken longer than others - full, as well as allowing him to visit Greasy’s (although Susan had taken to giving him free coffee every now and then). 

 

One family had heard he was repairing appliances, and had given him an old radio. 

 

“We bought a new one, but we thought you might like to have a look at it. If you can get it working again, I highly suggest listening in to the evening radio.” 

 

Of course, Rick had got it working again without issue, and had let it play in the background as he worked on setting up his equipment. Stanley’s voice spoke about events of the town. He supposed it was better to have a name to the voice, but it still felt odd that he had no idea of the face behind the man he’d been listening to. 

 

He lay back, sipping from his flask as he observed the wires and spare parts lying across his workbench, paying more attention to the words coming from the radio. 

 

" _That new scientist – we now know is named Rick – called a town meeting. He has a narrow jaw, and teeth like a military cemetery. His hair is blue and perfect, and we all hate, and despair, and love that perfect hair in equal measure._

_Young Man McGucket brought corn muffins which were decent, but lacked salt. He said the Angels had taken his salt for a Godly mission, and he and Ford had been too busy to buy more._

_Rick told us that we are by far the most scientifically interesting community in the U.S., and he planned to study just what is going on around here. He grinned, and everything about him was perfect, and I fell in love instantly._ ”

Rick choked on the alcohol he had half swallowed, spluttering and spitting it across the floor. He coughed, heaving, regulating his shock. 

“Wh-wh-what the _fuck_?” But Stan had long since moved on to other topics. There was no mistaking what he’d said. Rick wasn’t sure if he was more shocked by the words themselves or with how casually they had been said and forgotten. Stanley had admitted to being in love with a man - a _man,_ on _this_ planet, at _this_ time- he had never even met, on _public radio_ , and had said it in the same way he would’ve mentioned going on a date with his girlfriend, in such an off-handed yet sincere manner - Rick couldn’t help but grin at the guy’s bravery. He may have been grinning at the insight into this guy’s character. He was _definitely_ not grinning at the compliments. 

He turned his attention back to what he was working on. He definitely wanted to meet this guy now. 

 

It was early morning by the time he finished his seismograph. He turned it on, letting it do its work as he pushed back his chair and fell onto his bed (he bought the mattress for this one - as someone who often neglects sleep, he deemed it important that the little sleep he got was comfortable).

 

No more than four hours later, Rick checked the results, rubbing his bleary eyes. Apparently he wasn’t as good as he thought he was at making seismographs, if these results were anything to go by. If these were correct, there should have been ridiculous seismic activity, which was not happening, which meant he’d done something wrong. He couldn’t place where he’d gone wrong - everything seemed in perfect working order. That was the risk with self-made equipment, he supposed. A myriad of curses followed him to his “kitchen”. He wondered if Fiddleford would have a seismograph.

 

——

 

The shack wasn’t much more than he’d expected - perhaps slightly younger and sturdier, but nothing to write home about. Rick knocked on the door, smoothing down his hair as he waited for a response. It did little more than soothe him - his hair was far from being tamed so simply. Fiddleford _had_ told him he was welcome to visit, but Rick wasn’t sure he really expected him to just turn up on his doorstep. 

 

A broad-shouldered man answered the door. Definitely not Fiddleford. In all his worrying it seemed that the possibility of anyone else answering the door had not crossed his mind. He cleared his throat. 

 

“Rick Sanchez, I’m new in town. Fiddleford said I-I-I could come over if I need help with research or equipment or whatever.”

 

The man sighed. “Of course he did. Stanford Pines,” he extended his hand. Six fingers. “But most people call me Ford. Fiddleford and I are research partners. Please, come inside.” 

 

Rick slipped past and stopped. This place was definitely more interesting inside, like his place on a larger scale. Wires, circuits, notes, blueprints, all strewn across the room. 

 

“Apologies for the mess, we weren’t expecting—“

 

“Y-you got a working seismograph around here?”

 

Ford looked taken aback at the interruption. “I— There might be one in the lab, but what on Earth for?”

 

“Th-th-the one I built was giving off ridiculous readings, I wanted to cross-check them.”

 

Ford scoffed. “Home made? Of course the readings are off.”

 

The skinnier man glared at him. “You-you literally met me two minutes ago. I don’t think you can make accurate judgements about my ability to build scientific equipment.”

 

There was a silence. Ford appeared to be attempting to glare at him without meeting his eyes. 

 

“Stanford? Who’re ya talkin’ to?” Fiddleford asked, wiping his hands on a stained rag. “Oh! Rick! I didn’t expect you ‘round so soon.” 

 

“Hey Fiddles, I-I need to borrow some of your equipment. Specifically a seismograph.”

 

“We might have something of that description in the basement. I’m headed down there, if’n you’d like to follow me.” 

 

“Should we really be letting a stranger into our workspace?”

 

Fiddleford looked over at his work partner in shock, obviously not expecting the protest. “I’ll keep an eye on ‘im. Don’t you worry your pretty little face, Stanford.” He turned towards Rick. “I’ll lead the way.” 

 

——

 

He couldn’t believe his eyes when the results from Fiddleford’s seismograph were the same as the ones from his own. He was filled with an odd mix of confusion, vague fear, and stubborn smugness at the confirmation that his home-made seismograph was in perfect working order. The results themselves, however, provided a whole new level of - for lack of a better description - _weirdness_ to the town. 

 

Gravity Falls was turning out to be a long-term investigation. 

 

Rick grumbled, searching the benches for blank paper and a pen. He found a stack, partially buried under other notes, and scribbled down what he was seeing, what he was thinking, what he didn’t understand (a lot, to his chagrin). 

 

He stayed for dinner (Fiddleford’s request, upon seeing him so focussed and being unwilling to send him home in time for Rick to make his own), during which he was preoccupied with his findings. 

 

That was, however, until someone joined them. 

 

He’d been in the middle of explaining the results from his own seismograph and how they compared with the ones of Fiddleford’s (“It makes no fucking sense! I-I thought I’d made a mistake for once, but both sets of results show huge seismic activity here! W-w-we should be thrown across the fucking room with these results!”) when the door opened. A man who looked an awful lot like Stanford cut him off with a “you guys started without me?”  as he rounded the corner.

 

He stopped in the middle of the room. 

 

“Uh, Stanley,” Ford began, stopped, cleared his throat, “this is—“

 

“Rick Sanchez, I know,” he breathed, looking slightly starstruck. Rick almost blushed under the attention. 

 

“Right, of course. Uh, take a seat. Rick was just talking about the odd results from his seismograph.” Ford looked flustered, as if he didn’t know how to deal with his brother in that moment. 

 

“Oh really?” Stan took a seat next to Rick. “Please, continue, I could talk about it on my show. Any new scientific findings are important information for the town.” 

 

Ford muttered something along the lines of “never said that about _my_ findings” and “just because he’s handsome doesn’t mean his stuff’s more important” before Fiddleford grabbed his hand in a silencing gesture. Rick went over his results again, explaining what he’d found, noticing Stanley’s full, undivided attention was on him the whole time. He asked questions occasionally, which surprised Rick. He’d half expected Stan to just be checking him out, he hadn’t thought he’d be actually listening. He answered enthusiastically. Rick could get used to this, someone caring so much. The last person to do that might’ve been— 

 

_No. Not her. Not now. He’d made his choice. He couldn’t stay in that house._

 

They made comfortable conversation, swapping stories of the anomalies of Gravity Falls. It was comforting to know he wasn’t the only one who thought the place was strange. 

 

Rick Sanchez left the McGucket-Pines “house” (he thought that was stretching it, but he was in no position to judge people on housing situations - it was probably more comfortable than his own place) in the early hours of the morning. He decided they’d be helpful people to be associated with. Fiddleford and Stanford were obviously very intelligent men, and Stan had a place of important in this town. For now, that was reason enough for him to allow himself to start making connections. Forming bonds was usually something he avoided, but this was practical. Purely practical. 

 

He dropped onto his bed for the night. 

 

_Purely practical._


End file.
